


The Harm in Habits

by Nny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Sometimes, John Watson," he says, "I love your tiny little brain." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harm in Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for catwalksalone's ["It's Okay To Say I Love You"](http://catwalksalone.livejournal.com/438263.html) fest. Next time I promise something more cheerful... ;)

"Yes," Sherlock says, looking almost shocked by it. Then "Yes!" again, more gleefully. The final " _YES!_ " is on the arse end of a capering dance around the living room, skilfully circumnavigating the maze of a year's detritus to land directly in front of John, whose ears are resoundingly clapped as Sherlock cups John's face in his hands and bends to press a ridiculously overblown kiss to his forehead.

"Sometimes, John Watson," he says, "I love your tiny little brain."

"Marvellous," says John, acting unperturbed, turning over a page of the Guardian and smoothing it on his lap with small, fussy, tightly controlled movements. "So glad to be useful."

"I mean it," Sherlock says, persistent, not releasing John's head - it's becoming a little difficult to read, and there's something about drug trials that looks as though it might be of interest.

"My tiny brain is grateful," John says, "but it would like to get on with reading the Guardian if that's alright with you."

"Hmm," Sherlock says, sounding dissatisfied; he releases John's head, at least, and John gets back to reading the paper, pushing down the odd fizzing feeling in his stomach with the ease of long practice.

Sherlock drapes his long self over the chair opposite, pinching his lips as he stares at John - or more likely, through him, since John's comment about the shadow lengths appears to have triggered some thought process that might be of use. John decides to ignore him - as far as that's possible - and concentrate on names and faces and details that have no bearing on him at all.

"Your hand is steady," Sherlock points out eventually. It's eventually enough for the sun to have moved across the sky and into the corner by the microwave; John had honestly forgotten about his presence, he'd been sitting so still.

"Yes?"

"It's usually only steady when you're in a state of high tension," Sherlock continues.

"Oh." It's not a conversation he particularly want to pursue.

"I've done something," Sherlock says, oddly perceptive, and John can't help but glance up at him. He has no idea what his face reveals, but Sherlock's eyes narrow. "I've _said_ something."

"Nothing you haven't said before," John says, tighter than he'd like; he folds the Guardian precisely in half and tucks it down the side of the chair cushion, shifting himself forward and preparing to stand. Sherlock moves faster than he can credit, crossing the room to place one hand on each arm of John's chair, effectively pinning him in place.

"I didn't think you minded that I insult your intelligence. It's not as though I hold you responsible," Sherlock says, conciliatory.

"It's not about that," John says, forgetting for a moment - his brain is an expert at self-sabotage - that Sherlock will be able to piece it together from that.

"Oh," says Sherlock. His eyes shift from John's to the back of the chair, to empty space, to most likely a shifting montage of every time he has said the words and, no doubt, every facial expression of John's responses. " _Oh."_

"Yes," says John. "Well." And Sherlock doesn't resist when he pushes against his arm, eases himself out of the chair and limps over to fetch his cane. Sherlock collapses into the chair he has vacated, and the urge comes over John to tell him to forget it, to distract him with the minutiae of some case or other. Instead he picks up his coat.

"I do mean it," Sherlock says, soft and uncertain, when John's hand is on the door latch.

"Probably," John says, without turning around, "but I love _you_ , and I'm not sure we mean the same thing at all."


End file.
